


Rapture Burning

by DrOlShakes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, BioShock, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BioShock!au, Blackwater!au, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Cussing, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Rapture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2021997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrOlShakes/pseuds/DrOlShakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a Blackwater divergence set in the underwater city of Rapture from the BioShock series. Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark finally have an opprotunity to escape Rapture but Sansa is insistent that before they leave, they have to find her sister, Arya. Set during the Rapture Civil War, the two must endure the city gone mad, caught in a violent chess match between Andrew Ryan and the revolutionary named Atlas.</p>
<p>You don't need to have played BioShock or know the story to read this. In case you do want some background, here's a link to the trailer for the game. It gives a sense of what a plasmid is and the city's atmosphere. Trigger warnings for gore and violence: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lmw78t8NgIE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            Rapture was burning. He could see the flames through the glass and he knew that soon, the flames would reach him. Everywhere people were screaming. There was a crying child nearby. Sandor could hear it above the roaring of the men around him. Rapture was ending. Andrew Ryan had lost. The Lannisters had lost. Sandor had lost.

            Fucking flames, shooting out of people’s hands. If Sandor had known Rapture would have human flame throwers, he’d have told the Lannisters to go fuck themselves. Half the city gone mad with a taste for Adam the other half trying to get the hell out of Rapture. Not that Andrew Ryan was letting people leave. He’d ordered the bathyspheres shut down months ago.

            His cunt of a boss had ordered him and the rest of the lackeys out to fight: take down Fontaine’s men, break Atlas’s army of splicers, each one using those damn plasmids to light shit on fire. Or freeze it or throw it with their mind or create damn cyclones on the floor. Even some of the Lannister men had started using the shit. Not Sandor, he wasn’t using anything that could put fire in his veins. He had his automatic and his sawed-off. He was fucking fine without doping up on some little girl’s blood.

            A ground-shaking force hit the door, a loud bang ringing out. Fucking splicers had finally made it to this sector of the city, bringing fire and ice and lightening in their hands. The Hound grinned. Sandor took aim at the door. He thumbed the switch on the side of his automatic that would get the electricity flowing and little sparks ran down the barrel. Let ‘em come. He’d fucking kill them all.

And when the door shattered, when the splicers flooded in, the Hound roared and pulled the trigger, a spray of bullets being unleashed in a torrent. Bodies fell, some in front of him, some next to him. He could feel sprays of that new plasmid, Winter’s Blast, shooting by him. It hit a man next to him, Trant, maybe, and froze the bloke solid, his gun still up and aiming. Before Sandor could think to react, a bullet hit Trant and he shattered, little shards of ice brimming with corpse, flying everywhere.

The Hound’s lips twitched. He’d never liked Trant, fucking hated him actually, but it was a rough way to go. With a small tick, Sandor’s automatic clip ran dry. Cursing, he ducked down behind a directory sign. He scrambled for a new clip. As he shoved it in the compartment, a rush of flames flew past him, passing so close to Sandor that he could feel the heat in his nose hairs. The jet of flame hit some Lannister man who was instantly ignited into a howling, terrified bawling pyre. Sandor blanched, felt his throat go dry. His mind went blank, his muscles seized. Breathing came hard. It’d been so fucking hot and bright and absolutely white. And in the blank slate of his mind, Sandor latched onto an image. Another brightness, red this time, a flame made of soft strands, surrounding blue eyes. And his mind held onto that, to the Little Bird.

If Rapture fell, if he stopped now, she was done for. Sweet little thing like her could never survive in a Rapture run by Atlas and his splicers. No more songs spilling from her lips or quavering smiles as she tried to get through the day. He’d let her down enough by not stopping the beatings. He wouldn’t fail her in this. So Sandor grunted and finished loading his automatic. And then he stood up. For the Little Bird.

And when he emptied that clip, he put in another, and then another. Wave after wave of splicers flowed in and Sandor kept fighting, trying to keep the fear, that suffocating smell of burnt air, out of his mind.

Then came the footsteps, a loud clumping against the floor, vibrating up Sandor’s bones. And then he heard the moan, low and aching, like a whale. Then the giggle. Then the metallic ring of a bullet hitting metal. And then the roar before the charge.

Sandor had seen it once before, a Big Daddy protecting his Little Sister. Some bloke, out of his mind and lusting for Adam, had made the big mistake of trying to grab a Little Sister when her daddy’s back was turned. The drill had gone right through the splicers, guts spraying everywhere before the idiot even had a chance to attack.

Everybody knew not to attack a Little Sister, not if you wanted to live. Same thing happened if you attacked a Big Daddy, even by accident. If the lights in its helmet went from yellow to red, you were well and truly fucked. And somebody just made sure that they were all well and truly fucked.

Sandor ran, trying to be careful, but concentrating more on getting out of way of the huge lumbering beast. A balcony loomed above him, and Sandor scrambled up some spilled crates until he could reach the railing. As soon as he was over the ledge, he crouched down and eyed the battle below him, trying to see if he’d been spotted or followed.

The Big Daddy was swinging wildly, its giant metal hand made a grab for the Little Sister and placed her on its back. That’s when Sandor knew the battle was over. Big Daddys only carried their Little Sisters when it was about to unleash everything it had. After swatting a few splicers away, the Big Daddy unlatched a large gun from its back. Sandor felt his throat constrict and the blood wash from his face. The gun had a long nozzle on it and a large tank and Sandor moaned, the sound stretching out of his quivering lips.

All hell broke loose from the barrel of the flame thrower. Flames roared out, drenching the splicers and Lannister men alike. It coated the pillars and the drapes and the signs and carpet and started creeping closer and closer to the crates Sandor had climbed on. Splicers and Lannister men were shrieking and burning, the odor of their burnt flesh creeping its way into Sandor’s mind. The Little Sister was giggling though all of it.

Below him, the crates were burning and the flames were reaching up, trying to grab him. Moaning, Sandor tried to back away from the flames, from the burning, every moment reminding him of when he was a kid and of his brother, and that big looming fireplace. The toy knight had burned next to him.

Why the hell was he here? How’d he wind up this close to fire? For fuck’s sake, he’d come to the bottom of the ocean to escape it. The closer the flames got the harder it was to convince his body to move. In any other mood, Sandor would have laughed at himself. All he wanted to do was get the fuck away from the fire, and his body wouldn’t listen.

Suddenly, the radio at his side crackled, “Anybody still alive out there?” Tyrion Lannister’s voice came through the machine, momentarily distracting Sandor from the approaching flames.

Bring the radio up to his mouth, eyes never leaving the fire, Sandor responded “Aye.”

“Clegane? Is that you?” Sandor could hear the panic in the man’s voice.

“Aye,” the fucking fire had almost reached the balcony floor.

“Why aren’t you out there taking out the Big Daddy?” Tyrion yelled, “Everything will be destroyed if you don’t! We’ll lose the city!”

The fire had reached the balcony, the Big Daddy was still spewing flames and the Little Sister was still giggling.

“No,” Sandor whispered. He was done with this, with all of this.

“What?” Tyrion’s voice crackled.

“I’m not going back down there,” Slowly, Sandor stood up and began to back away from the fire.

“I wasn’t asking! Clegane, get your pathetic ass down there and kill that Big Daddy or the Lannisters are going to lose this city to Atlas!”

Sandor would have laughed if he hadn’t been so terrified, “Fuck Atlas. Fuck the city. Fuck the Lannisters.” Sandor clicked off the radio, turned his back to the fire, and walked away.

The heat of the fire on his back fueled him forward. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing but getting away from the flames. That, and getting a drink. Sandor walked where the flames weren’t, making his way through Rapture’s tunnels. He shot any splicer in his path, ignored everyone else until he was at the Lannister’s back gate.

Stuck in the richest part of Rapture, the Red Keep stood tall and gaudy, forcing its wealth down everyone’s throats. Atlas’s men hadn’t made it to this part of the city yet, but once they did, it’d be looted and burnt like the rest of Andrew Ryan’s glory. Sandor didn’t give a fuck. His clothes still smelled like ash and the smoke in his lungs clung to him ferociously. God, he wanted a drink. The red of the walls was too bright and the light reflecting off of the gold molding was too much like fire and all of a sudden more than a drink, he wanted his Little Bird.

Fuck it. He’d have both. She was supposed to be in the shelter in the cellar with the rest of the Lannisters, but they’d have to come out at some point. Especially her. She’d be locked down there with Joffrey and Cersei. A wolf alone with lions. She’d have to come out just to get away from the shit around her. And when she did, Sandor would be there. Hell, maybe she’d already gotten away from them. And when he saw her, big blue eyes, it’d be okay. He’d hold her, say things, pretty things that girls like her liked to hear, make her understand that she was the only good thing in this whole fucking world and then he’d kiss her.

The urge to laugh at himself bubbled up and out of his mouth. Kiss her? Fuck, she could barely look at him. So he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen and took a long drink, trying to ignore the smoky taste. Maybe after having seen how bad the splicers were his face wouldn’t seem so bad. He took another swig.

Sandor lumbered up the stairs, his adrenaline from the battle and his fear being drowned in an alcoholic lull. His steps grew heavier and his senses dulled, finally masking the smell of smoke. When he finally reached her room, he threw open the door, making it bang loudly against the wall. He had no intention of sneaking up on the Little Bird. When he found the room empty, he decided to lie down on the bed and wait.

Slamming the door behind him Sandor made his way over to the four-poster bed. It was nice, not too soft and just long enough for Sandor to stretch out on. He collapsed into it, letting the partially empty bottle of whiskey slip from his fingers. He heard it land and fall on its side, then the glugging sound of the booze flowing out. Hope the Little Bird didn’t slip on it.

He turned on his side, facing the large floor-to-ceiling window. On any other day, it’d have been a breathtaking view of Rapture. The city, normally lit up by lights, glowed in the water, the flames casting the buildings in an eerie hue. The raging fires looked green in the water’s deep blue. Through the whiskey haze, through his exhaustion, Sandor remembered his fear. But the Little Bird’s bed was soft, and he could smell the lemon of her hair on the pillow.

Sandor turned over, putting the burning city at his back, and waited. His eyes drifted shut, the flames disappeared, and all that was left was the Little Bird’s scent, and when he dreamt, the flames were green, but there were blue eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's returns to her room in the Red Keep, intent on making an escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for reading and leaving notes and kudos and all that jazz. This is my first fanfic, so it's great to get any response at all. Reviews and comments are always appreciated!

It was hard to keep the fear from showing. Joffrey was drunk, Cersei was drunker and Tyrion was huddled over his radio, hissing to someone. It was quiet outside. Sansa wondered if that was worse than if she could hear the fighting. She wondered if she would even be able to hear it through the thick walls of the bunker. She hoped she’d be able to, at least then she’d know if she was going to survive the night. Ilyn Payne was standing in the corner, eyes stoic and hands resting gently on his pistol. Sansa really hoped she wouldn’t die.

Suddenly, Tyrion leapt up, “Clegane, is that you?” he asked, and Sansa could hear the eagerness, the hope, in his voice. She couldn’t make out the response, but she found herself hoping as well. If the Hound was still alive, maybe Atlas’s army wasn’t going to win.

“Why aren’t you out there taking down the Big Daddy?” Tyrion yelled. This time, Cersei turned to listen as well, her head lolling around on her neck, her bright eyes dimmed with wine. Sansa shifted on the plump armchair, trying to see the screen where Tyrion was getting his information.

Though it was small and poor quality, the chaos Sansa saw on the screen made her shudder. A Big Daddy, Little Sister clinging to its back, had a flame thrower. Fire was gushing from its nozzle. People, some splicers, some not, some on fire, flailing on the ground, limbs doing some kind of perverse dance. Fear welled up Sansa’s throat. If this was how Atlas fought, then what chance did she have at surviving in Rapture?

Sansa’s attention was pulled back to Tyrion when she heard him screaming into the radio, trying to threaten the Hound. Sansa knew then, she knew that the battle was lost. The Hound, their dues ex machina, had refused to fight. The Lannisters should have known better, Sansa mused, then to send Sandor Clegane into the flames.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Tyrion raged, throwing the radio across the room. Cersei laughed, more of a cackle, and Joffrey’s worm lips frowned.

“It would seem our dog has run away,” Cersei said, the mockery evident in her slurred voice.

“Yes, he has. How astute of you to notice,” Tyrion grimaced, running his hands through his hair, “And now I have to go out there and figure out how to stop Atlas’s men.”

“You?” Joffrey laughed, “What could _you_ possibly do?” Sansa eyed her fiancé, trying to suppress her frown. His lack of regard for his personal bodyguard no longer surprised her.

As the Lannisters began yet another family squabble, Sansa stood and made her way to the great iron door of the shelter. As she grasped the large door handle, her neck hairs prickled and Sansa recognized the feeling of someone’s eyes on her. Glancing back, she met Ilyn Payne’s hard and unrelenting stare across the room. He blinked. Sansa kept her hand on the door handle, trying to summon up whatever courage she possessed. When he neither moved nor looked away, Sansa entered the lock code on the door and waited for the telltale click. She hoped that she hadn’t misinterpreted Ilyn Payne’s actions, or lack thereof, hoped that the bickering Lannisters wouldn’t notice her absence too quickly. She hoped that they wouldn’t care enough to look for her.

She carefully slipped out the door and once she was out, tried to shut it as quietly as possible. Taking a deep breath, Sansa savored the silence that she had so recently dreaded. This was silence unbroken by Tyrion’s whispers or Joffrey’s slurping or Cersei’s biting remarks. And then Sansa took off running. She ran through the mansion, partially to distance herself from that horrible room filled with horrible people, and partially just to feel a breeze in her hair. Living underwater, it was easy to forget how wind felt, or sunshine or rain. And now, with Rapture fallen, the Lannisters broken, her prison being destroyed from the inside out, maybe Sansa could finally go home. She didn’t know how, but she knew that she would do almost anything to get out of this city.

She took the steps two at a time, her dress swaying around her knees. Despite her determination to try and leave, despite being away from the Lannisters, Sansa felt a gnawing fear inside of her. It was a pit in her stomach and it tingled, her skin hyper sensitive to the brushing of the air.

When she reached her room, Sansa paused before opening the door, catching her breath. She tried to form a loose plan. She’d need money, maybe her jewelry to pawn off, and better shoes. These pumps would be the death of her. She had a small knife, an old gift from her father. She didn’t know how to use it very well, and the thought of it made her feel a little nauseous, but Sansa forced herself to think practically. She would need it.

Slowly, she entered her room, closing the door quietly behind her. The room was dimly lit from the window in her room. Glancing out of it, Sansa gasped. Rapture was on fire. She could see the glow of the flames, green through the water. For a moment, Sansa thought of Sandor Clegane, of his story, of the night that he had been drunk enough, angry enough, to tell it to her. Sansa thought of Sandor Clegane and found she couldn’t fault him for leaving the fight. Rapture was burning and, like Sansa, Sandor Clegane owed the Lannisters nothing. She smiled to herself, glad that she wasn’t the only one finally breaking free.

Tearing her eyes away from the window, Sansa flitted to her closet, exchanging her pumps for a pair of flats. After a brief moment of consideration Sansa made a rash choice. Recently, her friend Margaery had insisted that Sansa purchase a pair of black trousers. They were all the rage. Sansa had given in, but never worn them, preferring her dresses and skirts. Now, she was forced to admit, they were much better for making an escape. Arya had loved the new fad, raving about them and never wearing anything else.

At the thought of Arya, Sansa froze, her hands about to button the trousers. Arya had run away weeks ago, shortly after their father had been murdered, but Andrew Ryan had already closed the bathyspheres, shutting off access to the surface. Arya was still in Rapture. She could be alone in this burning city. Sansa whimpered, a low mewling sound.

Sansa had to find her sister before she left. Find Arya, get out of Rapture. Sansa sniffled and then squared her shoulders. She had to be strong if she was going to do this. Strong like Father, like Mother, like Robb. Strong like Arya. After clasping the trousers, Sansa pulled on a white blouse. Grabbing a small purse, she made her way to her bureau and began rifling through it. She found the small knife in a drawer, under some old fashion magazines. She placed it on top of the bureau. Next, she grabbed some of her nicer jewelry and stuffed it in her purse. Rapture may be closed for business but it could be helpful on the surface, assuming she and Arya made it that far. She pushed the doubtful thought away. Sansa was pulling out a wad of hidden money when she heard a rustling sound behind her.

“You’re destroying your nest, Little Bird,” came a voice from her bed. Sansa knew that voice, more, she knew that pet name. The Hound was on her bed. Sansa turned, clutching the purse to her chest and resisting the urge to grab the knife.

“Thought I was dreaming when you took off your clothes, knew I wasn’t when you put them back on.” Sansa could hear the sleep in his voice, and probably some booze. The Hound was nothing more than a dark outline, a hulking shadow. She tried to banish the flush in her cheeks that his words summoned, hoping it had been too dark for him to truly see her.

“Why are you here?” She forced herself to ask, making a conscious effort to not call him “sir.”

The Hound didn’t answer for a long time. He moved forward and Sansa’s muscles tensed. Sandor Clegane wasn’t the worst of them, but she’d seen his anger before. He must have noticed her apprehension because he didn’t rise from the bed. His motion had brought his face into the dim glow of the room, shadows playing off of his scars. Green light washed over him, but Sansa had never seen his grey eyes so empty. It scared her even more than anger would.

“I’m leaving,” he finally spoke, his eyes meeting Sansa’s and then moving quickly away. “Looks like you’re leaving too.”

“Yes,” Sansa answered.

There was another moment of silence. Sansa stared at Sandor who, for once, couldn’t seem to look at her.

“We could go together,” it was barely a whisper and he stood as he said it. “No one would hurt you again or I’d kill them.” Sandor finally held her gaze, a steel edge to his voice a harsh, coarse promise of protection. His eyes were no longer empty. They were alive now, dim, grey-green, but glowing. Renewed, Sansa realized.

And Sansa discovered that she wanted to go with him, to say yes. For a brief moment, she considered whether or not she could trust him, and found that she wanted to. She wanted to believe that Sandor Clegane, in spite of his anger and his drinking, would keep her safe. She wanted to believe that safety was possible. The fearsome Hound protecting his Little Bird, escorting her through Rapture. Sansa wanted that, a feeling of security that could be found behind this brick wall of a man.

But then Sansa remembered the fire and she knew that safety, the kind to be found with the Hound, would be incomplete. But more than that, Sansa had to find her sister. Arya was somewhere in Rapture, and Rapture was burning. The Hound wouldn’t go through the fire for her or her sister.

“I can’t,” Sansa murmured and she noticed a brief flash in his eyes, a dropping at the corner of his lips. It saddened Sansa to see it, so she quickly amended herself, “I have to find my sister before I leave.”

If she had expected sympathy, she received none. The Hound laughed, a short barking sound of derision: “You’re going to rescue the she-wolf? With a small pig sticker and a bag of pearls?” The Hound stepped closer to Sansa, close enough to press her up against the bureau. Her breath quickened. Here was the rage she knew so well.

“What was your plan, Little Bird?” He gripped her shoulders in his large hands, but Sansa knew he was restraining himself when his fingers didn’t tighten painfully. “To chirp at the splicers and they’d point you towards your sister?” The Hound lowered his face until he could stare her directly in the eye. Sansa’s eyes widened at the close proximity to his burns, but was trapped by the wildness in the grey eyes so close she could make out the slight dilation of his pupils.

“Well,” he snarled, “was that your plan?” To throw away your life like it’s nothing? Like it’s not worth anything?”

Sansa was shocked to see a wet glisten in his eyes, unnoticeable if he hadn’t been so close. And her fear was gone, replaced by a need to prove to him that the whole world wasn’t on fire. As he breathed heavily in her face, tainted with the scent of alcohol, his clothes smelling of ash, Sansa raised her hands. She placed one on his chest, and gently cupped his ruined cheek with her other. A soft moan escaped his lips and he leaned into her touch.

“I could keep you safe, Sansa,” it was nothing more than a whisper, and she felt the brush of his lips against her wrist when he spoke.

It was a prayer, a plead, a promise. “Then come with me,” Sansa breathed into his good ear, “help me find my sister. Keep me safe.”

“Keep you safe,” he murmured, his hands running down her arms and coming to a stop at her waist where they rested gently, almost innocently.

They stood like that for a long while. She was safe in his arms, her hands keeping him close, each cast in the green glow of the burning city.


	3. Chapter 3

           

            They were running. His heavy boots clanging against the metal floor, her breaths no louder than the padding of her feet. He didn’t care about being heard, not with all the screaming and explosions and the destruction of Mercury Suites. The splicers had come to Olympus Heights, the richest part of rapture, and they had come to tear it down. Sandor didn’t blame them. Olympus Heights stood high above Pauper’s Drop, its inhabitants shitting on the very people who’d built Rapture. Andrew Ryan and his damned inner circle had left them out to dry, allowing them to get lost in the Great Fucking Chain, the wheel of progress. And here he was in Mercury Suites, where the richest of the rich lived, trying to smuggle the fiancé of Rapture’s most hated citizen not _out_ of the city, no, he was trying to take her deeper.

            He led Sansa through Mercury Suites, her hand clammy in his, clutching tight. Sandor wanted to let go. It would be easier to aim, shoot, kill, be the Hound, if he wasn’t holding the hand of a frightened girl. But she wouldn’t let go and Sandor couldn’t bring himself to shake her off. Her handprint, its warmth, was still searing on his chest, the tingling in his burns still raging from her touch. So he held on and settled for spraying bullets at the bulging, deformed bodies of the splicers. He didn’t hit most of them, but they scattered enough when he barred his teeth at them. They moved on in search of easier prey.

            Sansa ran slightly behind him, her strides long and sure, keeping pace with his own. Glancing back at the Little Bird, Sandor felt a surge of unfamiliar warmth in his chest. Her hair was streaming back, color high on her cheeks, knife held firmly in her other hand. Fucking beautiful.

            Sandor scowled. Now was not the time to lose his head over a pretty girl. Or notice the way her cigarette pants clung to her hips and the pointy tips of her brassiere. He forced those thoughts out of mind and dragged her behind a pillar, pushing her behind his back as he peered out. Splicers everywhere, howling, their clothes in tatters and blood-splattered. They made him sick. Pathetic bugs, junked up on Adam and following some unknown shitstain calling himself Atlas, and all for the promise of a little girl’s blood. They were weak, all of them.

            Anger spilled through Sandor’s veins as he glared at the massacre in front of him. He’d never given a shit about anybody, never stuck his head out for anyone, and now this slip of a girl had convinced him to go through Rapture looking for someone who was probably dead. He must have been out of his mind to let her talk him into this. Or just drunk. But when he’d seen a dress fall down her lithe form, shadowy and green in the darkness, he’d thought there was no better way to wake up. He had let himself watch her, followed her movements, graceful even in agitation, as she packed. There’d been a moment of panic when he realized she was leaving and then rage at the thought of her trying to do it alone.

            The anger had simmered down somewhat at the thought that maybe he could leave with her. Fucking rescue the Little Bird, bring her back to the surface, get her undying gratitude probably. Well that had gone to shit. And here he was, escorting Sansa fucking Stark on a hopeless quest through Rapture. He’d roar with laughter if there wasn’t an army of blood-lusting splicers trying to kill them.

            Sandor slammed a new clip into his automatic, dropping her hand to do so. He’d have to get to an Ammo Bandito soon. He was running preciously low on bullets, the electric variety having run out long ago. An explosion sounded behind them, funneling hot air through the enclosed street. Fucking Nitro Splicers. Obscene cheers raged over the sound, colliding with the screams of Rapture’s wealthiest citizens. On instinct, Sandor crouched down, the Little Bird mimicking him. He could feel her heavy, terrified breath on the back of his neck. When he looked back, her eyes were wide, and her mouth clenched tight, trying to keep silent.

            When their eyes met, a change came over Sansa. Her eyes relaxed and her breathing slowed. He could feel her steeling herself. Anybody else and he’d have mocked them for their fear, but the Little Bird knew cruelty, and had more than enough of his, and Sandor found himself begrudgingly admiring her strength. She was doing well, running with him and trying to ignore the death surrounding her.

            Finally, with the crackling remnants of the explosion behind them, Sansa nodded to him, a sharp glint in her eye. Sandor nodded back, their eyes connected and riveted. Without thinking, he found her hand and she wove her fingers through his. With a huff, he rose up, keeping her close as they ran again through a lull in the battle.

            Sandor just needed to get to the maintenance exit that led to the Atlantic Express tunnel. Then they could cut through Olympus Heights, skipping around the rest of the residential areas. It was risky, walking through the tram tunnel, but safer and quicker than going through Apollo Square and Athena’s Glory. This way they could go straight to the Bistro Square where the bathysphere station was. Sandor shuddered as he remembered the fiery hell that Athena’s Glory had become. Better to avoid all that and go through the tunnel. Sandor tried not to think about what they would do if there were no bathyspheres, aside from being well and truly fucked.

            All the reports were the same. Splicers moving through Rapture on the derelict Atlantic Express, destroying everything they touched before destroying the tram lines they rode in on. If the reports held true, all the splicers would be crashing through Olympus Heights, leaving almost no one to guard the tunnels of the Atlantic Express. They weren’t very organized, just mindless beasts searching for Adam and following Atlas’s orders. But if that wasn’t the case and the tunnel was filled with the little shits, the Hound would kill them all and get the Little Bird to the bathyspheres. Sandor would keep her safe.

            The vaulted door drew closer, grey and iron. Some sad fuck of a splicer, a gaping hole where its nose should be and bandages around its head, was making a pathetic attempt to guard it. Sandor shot him before an alarm could be raised. He stopped running and nudged Sansa ahead of him. The Little Bird stumbled over the corpse but kept her footing, her lips pursed in disgust.

            “Get that door open, girl,” he barked, placing himself in a position to both watch behind them and see through the swinging door. He held the automatic at the ready and heard the Little Bird grunt as she spun the door handle, shaped like a ship’s wheel, and pulled.

            Nothing was waiting on the other side but a gloomy haze and Sandor motioned for Sansa to stop, the door open just wide enough for him to get a good look. After taking more of a thorough glance around, Sandor motioned for Sansa to go through, not wanting to leave her alone for even a moment in room filled with splicers: “Get in, knife up,” he urged, voice low.

            Sansa nodded again, but her eyes slid away as she peered beyond the door, unmoving. Growling, Sandor grabbed her arm and shoved her through the door, following after, having to crouch down. After closing the door he turned around, slamming into the Little Bird who had frozen in front of him. At the contact she lurched forward, a gasp torn from her lungs. Sandor’s hand shot out, snagging her before she could fall. He must have gripped her too hard because she yelped in pain, a high shrill noise that could have alerted anyone to their presence.

            “Sandor! Let go-” her voice rang out into the gloom, too fucking loud. In an instant he had crushed her back to his chest, one arm braced under her breasts, the other hand snaked over her mouth. He dragged them back into the shadows before turning her, more of a throw, so she was caught between him and the cold wall of Rapture.

            Leaning down, his face inches from hers, he hissed, “Quiet,” the word squeezing out of his teeth. She nodded frantically, her big blues wild. Assured of her silence, Sandor turned to face the gloom in front of them.

            A long tunnel stretched before them. Brick walls rounded up, tall, and darkness cloaked the top. In the distance was a lamp, yellowing light spilling from it, the only one left whole after the splicers’ decimation. Tram tracks wove through the tunnel, barely visible as they protruded from the ground. As Sandor’s eyes adjusted, a shadow across from them slowly took the form of an over-turned tram car. The longer he stared, Little Bird at his back, the more objects he could make out. Most turned out to be nothing: lockboxes and pipes and trash. Some were corpses- splicers and people alike. Sandor felt his mouth twitch at the fuss these rich fucks would make at being so close to the poor.

Through all of this, though, was silence and stillness. It seemed like Atlas and his ilk were confident enough in their victory to not even guard this shortcut. They’d gotten fucking lucky, he thought, rounding on the Little Bird.

She seemed about to move forward when Sandor grabbed her arm again. She stopped and raised her eyes towards him, questioning. “Next time I tell you to do something, do it,” Sandor said, his voice low and cold as he remembered her hesitation, “Don’t fucking stand there.”

Sansa didn’t say anything, her breaths coming rapidly. Frustrated, he shook her arm, wanting any kind of reaction. And then he saw her mouth grimace in pain and he instantly loosened his hold. Their eyes met. A moment was dragged between them, dense and heavy.

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispered, a statement.

            “No, Little Bird, I won’t hurt you,” he affirmed, sickened that it even needed to be said.

            Sansa met his eyes for a moment and then her hand reached up to grasp his, tightly, for a moment before dropping away.

            As if scalded, Sandor lurched away from Sansa. That little touch, that fucking, what, reassurance, felt different out here: too exposed. Running hand in hand had felt overwhelming, but being _touched_ like that, right after he’d hurt her; promised that he wouldn’t hurt her. It was too much. It made him think too much about how her body had been pressed to his and the smell of lemons in her hair.

            Squaring his shoulders, Sandor forced himself to break away and turn his back on the Little Bird; “Let’s get moving.” He purposefully raised the automatic up with both of his hands.

            Sandor moved silently, taking care to step lightly and deliberately. He’d run enough covert ops during the war to know how to make his monstrous frame tread quietly. The Little Bird, to his immense surprise, was nothing more than a tingling presence trailing behind him, noiseless. He’d have to ask her where she learned to move like that.

            He kept them close to the brick walls of the tunnel, steeped in shadows. As they drew closer to the single lit lamppost, a quiet moan slithered through the tunnel. It slinked out, freezing Sansa in place with a startled gasp. Almost on impulse, Sandor reached back, silently offering his hand, not knowing why he did it.

            Her hand clutched his as the moan turned into a wail, a shriek, a screech; “I can’t take the ears off!” And then a clutter of footsteps, urgent, panicked, ricocheting off the tunnel walls, a howl.

            The hairs on the back of Sandor’s neck stood stiff as a shadow came hurling out of the gloom. The shape: a man, two huge porcelain ears on his head, the blood-splattered mask covering his eyes, his mouth a gaping maw of broken teeth raging towards him. Sandor pulled the trigger, bullets pouring into the splicer’s chest and the howls only got louder. The man refused to fall, to die, screeching, “ _I can’t take the ears off I can’t take the ears off I can’t take the ears off!_ ”

            “Make it stop!” Sansa shrieked, releasing his hand and dropping to her knees, covering her ears.

            And Sandor did. He charged at the splicer, pulled out his bowie knife and plunged it hilt deep into the thing’s neck. The howling trickled down, ending in a gurgle of blood seeping from its mouth.

            Yanking out his knife, a spray of blood landed on Sandor’s face. The warmth was sickeningly familiar. He wiped the blade on his pants and turned to the Little Bird. She’d taken her hands away from her hair and folded them delicately on her lap, knees bent and resting on her calves. She was silent, staring at the dead splicer. A pool of blood was slowly seeping towards her.

            “Little Bird,” he said, crouching beside her, “We need to move.”

            And despite his earlier instructions, she didn’t budge. It didn’t even seem like she heard him. Sandor began to feel annoyed but pushed it back. The girl had probably never seen a man killed like that, hadn’t been through the war like he had, so forced himself to put a hand on her shoulder.

            “Sansa,” he murmured, her name soft on his lips, “Sansa, please, it’s time to go.”

            It was foreign to him, being so delicate, but damn if the Little Bird didn’t turn to look at him and nod. He nodded back and stood, grimacing when he saw he’d left a bloody handprint on her white blouse. Sandor began to walk and felt a surge of pride when Sansa rose and daintily stepped over the splicer’s corpse without even glancing down.

            They passed through the remainder of the tunnel without incident, the end looming up out of the gloom. The exit door was covered in hastily stacked crates and debris, a small obstacle to overcome. A sign above it proclaimed “Bistro Square.” They set to work uncovering the door. The crates were light, practically empty, and read “Fontaine Fisheries” on the side. Sandor would grab the pieces at the top, test their weight before handing them to Sansa who would gently place them on the ground.

            After the door was clear, Sandor motioned for Sansa to open it, repeating the process from earlier. A slim beam of light pooled through the door casting a light on his face. He could quietly hear a group of splicers on the other side, but nothing more than mutterings and the patter of feet.

            Leaning closer, Sandor tried to discern how many splicers were in the station. As far as he could tell, there were three, four at most. Easy enough.

            Turning to Sansa, he instructed, “When I go in, I want you to stay here. Hide behind those crates. Don’t move until I come for you. Got it?”

            She nodded, her features barely visible beyond the slim beam of light.

            “Good,” Sandor said, looking back to the station. Slowly, Sansa inched the door open wider and he went through, trying his damndest to keep quiet. The splicers were huddled around a metal trash can, fire burning inside it, talking. It was some shit about Atlas and that shrink Sofia Lamb. Sandor didn’t give a fuck.

            They were easy to sneak up on and easier to kill. They fell dead at his feet and Sandor rummaged through their pockets, finding a few dollars to help buy ammo. Afterwards, he returned to Sansa who pointedly avoided looking at the splicers when she entered the station.

            It wasn’t until he saw her glancing around that Sandor took a moment to properly survey the station. He’d been too concerned with clearing the area of splicers. The place wasn’t a complete ruin, but it hadn’t been spared the onslaught of Rapture’s war. The damage to the platform wasn’t what concerned him though.

            In order for a bathysphere to leave the station, it had to pass through an airtight chamber that filled with water and then drained after the bathysphere was out. The door to that chamber was completely covered in ice, courtesy of that damned plasmid Winter’s Blast. Solid sheet of ice, probably four or five inches thick, lay between them and getting out of Olympus Heights.

            “Fuck,” Sandor muttered. Their luck seemed to have run out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people! Thanks for reading this far! I wanted to give a shout out to my beta, who only wants to be known as toast...so here's to you, Toast! Anywho, I'm going to try my hardest to update on Mondays and Tuesdays. I know, I know, that's a week in between updates but I'm a working student and it's what my schedule can afford. Thanks for sticking with me this far!
> 
> If you're curious about what the rabbit mask looks like, here's a link: https://0-media-cdn.foolz.us/ffuuka/board/po/image/1381/33/1381336741298.jpg  
> If you want to know more about Bioshock and Rapture in general or are confused about some of the terms in this story, here's another link: http://bioshock.wikia.com/wiki/BioShock_Wiki


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry I missed a week! Family was visiting, hadn't seen them in a long time. Enjoy!

Chapter Four

            It was so much worse than she thought it would be. Sansa had heard some of the reports, knew about Atlas and the splicers and Dr. Qyburn’s experiments. But this, it was so much worse. Sansa found herself pitying the splicers, the poor souls who had been ensnared by the wonders of Adam and plasmids.

            Her father had spent many nights railing against their creation and distribution. But they’d all been trapped in Rapture, unable to interfere with the Great Chain and Andrew Ryan’s ‘every man for himself’ ideology. And when Father had tried to go against him, against the Lannisters…

            Sansa stopped herself. She didn’t want to think about any of that. Seeing what Rapture had become, this once shining jewel of a city reduced to burning rubble, felt too close to what had happened to Sansa’s family.

            Witnessing the destruction of Rapture, or at least of Olympus Heights, made Sansa grateful for Sandor at her side. He was rude, demanding, terrifying in action, but he was an unbreakable wall between her and Rapture. She’d been foolish to believe she could travel through this city alone.

            He’d seemed to steel himself to the flames, his face a stoic mask as they ran through the streets. Sansa had tried to do the same, ignore all the screaming and crying and the howling of the splicers. She would feel herself at the brink, some cliff, about to tumble over, and then their eyes would meet and she found it in herself to keep going. Sansa couldn’t remember who took the other’s hand first, but it had come naturally to her, his huge hand engulfing hers.

            Scrambling through Mercury Suites had been terrifying. The streets and the plaza burning, everything well-lit by the flames, a constant crackling underneath it all. The tram tunnel had been a startling contrast. Sansa felt her cheeks burn as she remembered her hesitation, her terror at being asked to go through that door first. It’d been so dark, quiet, empty, and Sandor had let go of her hand.

            That tunnel had broken Sansa; it had made her forget that she was a Stark. That splicer had come charging at her, its voice shrill, and it had destroyed whatever strength Sansa had. Sandor had brought her back, had comforted her in a way she didn’t know the large man had been capable of. Sansa had felt herself shatter and had been slowing picking up her courage again.

She couldn’t let that happen again. She had to be strong if she was going to find Arya. She could not be porcelain or ivory. Sansa would be steel. Standing here, in Bistro Square, the station ruined, but not destroyed, Sansa vowed to herself that she wouldn’t break again. She would be a wolf; a Stark.  

            Sansa became aware of the Hound cussing behind her, something about splicers and Winter’s Blast and being unable to get out, but with more words, most of which made Sansa blush. Raising her eyes, Sansa looked at the entrance to the airtight chamber and her heart sunk. Sandor was right. They were trapped. She heard him yell and kick a can across the room, crashing against the wall.

            The sound startled her, making her jump. She’d seen the Hound’s anger: tight, cold, and cruel, in both action and word. But here, he was completely out of control, snarling, unbridled rage coming off of him in waves. And Sansa felt calm. His anger, any anger, was useless. It wouldn’t help them get out of Olympus Heights. It wouldn’t help her find Arya.

            Choosing to ignore the Hound for the moment, Sansa turned her eyes to the rest of the station. Usually bursting with people, Sansa was struck by the quietness. There was the Hound’s cussing, the crackling of a fire, and the sound that was distinctly Rapture.

            It was a faint groaning sound, a reminder of the tons of pressure, of the press of the ocean outside. The sound of Rapture was the insistence that death, depth and darkness were always near. She’d lain awake countless nights, feeling the ache of a new bruise, the swell of tears as she longed for family and home, all with the tuneless sound of Rapture surrounding her. Some nights, Sansa was sure that that sound would drive the city mad.

            Maybe it had. Her glance glazed over the corpses of the splicers, trying to ignore their misshapen limbs, the blood seeping from their wounds. The disarray of the station disquieted her so she turned back to the look at the ice covering their exit. They had to get out, somehow. The ice coating the chamber door was too thick to break, too large to melt with the fire from the trashcan. Something large, then, something stronger.

            When the solution came to Sansa, she balked. It was distasteful, disgusting almost, and she couldn’t imagine asking such a thing of Sandor. Sansa faced him, his good side meeting her eyes. She couldn’t imagine facing the Hound with this answer.

            His body was taunt; muscles bulging against the white of his shirt, his black waistcoat cutting a figure that Sansa blushed to admit was impressive. He had raised his automatic, aiming at the sheet of ice.

            “Don’t bother. It’s not going to work,” Sansa said, her voice seeming too loud in the stillness of Bistro Square.

            “You got a better idea?” he snarled, not even sparing her a glance.

            Sansa hesitated. Her idea was good. It would work. But she remembered the night of the poker tournament, she remembered his story. She couldn’t put this on Sandor.

            “Cat got your tongue, girl?” the Hound lashed out, stalking towards her. “Because the way I see it, I’m going to have to either shoot us out or somehow steal some Big Daddy’s drill and dig us the fuck out!” He was close to her now, his heaving chest touching her, Sansa’s eyes on level with the bob of his adam’s apple. Feeling invaded, Sansa stepped back, and the Hound laughed.

            “You asked me to keep you safe, get you through Rapture-and now what?” he growled, following her every step backwards. “Now you’ve seen me kill, seen the blood up close, finally seen me for the dog that I am. It’s all too damn dirty for a prissy bird like you.”

            And Sansa stopped her retreat. She stood still, a fire burning inside her, forcing her to look him in the eye. There was anger there, a challenge. Sansa stood her ground, and the Hound met her gaze.

            “I know what the world is, what Rapture is,” she began, and he stopped walking towards her. “It’s full of killers and criminals and I know that you’ve done terrible things.”

            He opened his mouth to speak but Sansa held up her hand to stop him: “But you’re not a dog. You’re not an animal. I won’t treat you like one. I expect the same from you.” His eyes slipped from hers when he heard his challenge thrown back in her voice.

            Enraged by his lack of response, Sansa stalked closer to his hulking figure, a wolf on the prowl, each step deliberate.

            “You have yelled at me. You have pushed me. You have grabbed me and treated me as if I were helpless. That stops now,” when she stood in front of him, as close to him as he had come to her, she grabbed his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers.

            “I am _not_ helpless,” she hissed.

            Sandor’s eyes, at first steel and defiant, began to change. Her gaze was met with resistance, then, finally, there was a glimmer of acceptance. She no longer had to struggle to hold his face, his chin resting in her hand.

            “Alright, Sansa,” Sandor murmured, his breath blowing gently on her face. She nodded in response and released him. He stepped away, running a hand through his hair.

            “But how are we going to get through that damned chamber?” the question seemed more directed at himself than to Sansa, but she answered anyway.

            “Incinerate,” she said, schooling her face and voice into neutrality.

            And despite her earlier vow of strength, Sansa couldn’t bring herself to look at Sandor, to gauge his reaction.

            Sansa had expected another burst of rage, more cussing, a refusal. She got none of those. Sandor was silent, and Sansa willed herself to look at the man. He’d drawn himself up to his full height, his jaw tense, his lips thin. There was something close to fear in his eyes, a battle raging behind the flint grey of his glare.

            It broke Sansa’s heart, to see him war with himself. The path to her sister, to safety, blockaded with his only fear. It had driven him from battle earlier, making him abandon the Lannisters, brought him to her room. Sansa thought that maybe this internal battle of his was being fought for her, from a desire to help her. It wasn’t the first time that she suspected that Sandor might care for her, but to see such evidence before her, that he might endure the flames for her, pierced her deeply.

            The desire to end this battle overwhelmed her, and Sansa walked towards Sandor, taking one of his hands in hers.

            “I’ll do it, Sandor,” she whispered, “I’ll use the plasmid.”

            If she had thought to quiet the war inside of him, it didn’t seem to work. Sansa watched the horror grow in his eyes, his mouth slipping open.

            “No, you can’t-” he began, his voice choked.

            “I can do this,” Sansa moved to grab his other hand, but he pulled away, moving back.

            Sandor was shaking his head, eyes wide. “That shit is poison, Little Bird. It gets in your veins, your DNA. You’re never the same afterwards.”

            “I know, Sandor, but it’s the only way,” she tentatively took a step to follow him.

            “You could turn into a splicer!” he yelled, the rage broiling in his voice.

            “Not if you only take a little. I heard Tyrion talk about Adam, I know how it works,” Sansa tried to reason with him. The wildness in his eyes grew stronger.

            “It’s too dangerous. We’ll find another way. I’ll take it-” his words were rushed, frantic.

            “No. I’m going to do it,” Sansa insisted, her hand snaking out and grasping his arm. “I won’t ask you to go into the fire, Sandor. Not for me. Not for anyone.” Sansa’s voice softened, her thumbs stroking circles on his arms.

            Sandor broke. He yanked Sansa against his chest, arms collapsing around her; “I would, Sansa. For you, I would,” the words were almost a sob, muffled as he spoke against the top of her head.

            “I’d never ask you to,” she murmured against the beating of his heart. She raised her arms and pressed him closer, palms against the spikes of his shoulder blades. The sound of his heart, the labor of his breath, shut out the sound of Rapture, and just for a moment, Sansa let herself feel safe in Sandor’s arms. Sansa felt the pressure of his lips against the crown of her head and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing this moment to last just a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are two video demonstrating the way that the two specific plasmids mentioned work and look. They're both very short and feature actual gameplay. You know, for context and stuff in case you're reading this without ever having played the game. I like to imagine there are a couple of you like that. :) Those of you who HAVE played the game, any favorite characters that you'd like to make a cameo? I've got a few lined up, but I'd love some feedback...or, you know, just feedback in general. Thanks!
> 
> Video Warnings: Violent and graphic images, screaming and yelling, video game violence.  
> Incinerate Plasmid: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TusEojcQ6uI
> 
> Winter's Blast: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NQ0U1h6-6Q


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